Drain Me
by ScarlettWoman710
Summary: That was her forever. Almost perfect, but not quite. So close to having it all, just not enough heaven to make her forget completely that it was really hell.  Written for Gray Glube!  Rated M for MAJOR smut.  Violet/Tate.


**Author:** ScarlettWoman710

**Title:** Drain Me

**Summary: **That was her forever. Almost perfect, but not quite. So close to having it all, just not enough heaven to make her forget completely that it was really hell.

**Rating:** M

**Warning(s)/Kinks: **Language, Violence, Sexual situations, Fantasy Non-Con, FemmeSlash

**Spoilers:** All of S1 episodes

**Disclaimer:** I don't own American Horror Story. If I did, we would have had a lot more Violate sex scenes.

**A/N:** Written as a gift for and with a prompt from **Gray Glube**, to thank her for starting the Gift Fic Challenge that got me writing! She wanted to see a sexually frustrated Violet and a Tate with a bit of a chip on his shoulder - hope I delivered for you, woman - and it turned into a bucket of smut with my favorite Shel Silverstien poem from when I was a kid - twisted, I know. Just like my other fics, named for a Nirvana song. I love that this show and fandom has made me go through all my old music and listen to the gems from my younger years.

* * *

><p>"<em>Almost perfect, but not quite.<em>

_Those were the words of Mary Hume_

_At her seventh birthday party,_

_Looking 'round the ribboned room._

_This tablecloth is pink not white – _

_Almost perfect… but not quite."_

Violet leans her head against the banister of the basement stairs and listens to Travis read the poem to Angie and Margaret. She knows the poem by heart so she mouths the words along with him. She can remember the book he's reading from, it's one of her favorites though she'd never admit it to anyone else. Dark and twisted teenage girls obsessed with the macabre and drawn to the darkness are supposed to be able to quote Poe in their sleep, not Shel Silverststein. There's nobody to call her on it or tease her for knowing all the words so she recites the poem about a girl who was never satisfied with what was in front of her, not even after the day she died.

Her mouth twitches into a grin. It's ironic.

It's summertime in L.A. and the house is stifling, currently unoccupied with no one to pay for air conditioning. Her parents have found an old sprinkler in the garage and are playing with the baby in the backyard. In spite of being dead for five years he's still too little to do more than goo and gurgle as the water drips on his toes but her parents seem to be happy with the experience. Violet doesn't want to rain on their parade so she goes down into the basement where it's cool. Travis reclines with Angie and Margaret on either side, sweat dripping down his bare chest. She doesn't know how he can sit there with the girls – she can feel the heat wafting off of them from the stairs – but he seems happy and the girls are more than content to cuddle up to their new best friend. They tried to play in the sprinkler but he cool water burned their charred skin so he picked up a book and offered to have story-time instead.

Violet picks up the glass of water that she brought down with her and takes a sip. The glass is sweating all over her hand. She flicks her fingers at her neck and little drips slide down her throat and to her chest. She pretends it's Travis's sweat. His fingers. His mouth.

His tongue, tracing the line of her neck while his hands trace the side of her thighs. His lips caressing her breasts. His teeth, squeezing her nipple between the white of his enamel.

She shivers and squeezes her thighs together.

She's taken to fantasizing about Travis because he's kind, and gentle, and above all, _safe._ Travis may have a thing for older women but he's never fucked her mother. He might not be smart but he is sweet, sweet enough to play with Angela and Margaret and to be kind enough to everyone in the house.

He's a little old for her, but that adds to the allure. If she fucked him then maybe she wouldn't feel like such a damn baby. She's the only person who's closer to Lorianne's daughter's ages than to adulthood.

Well, the only _other _person.

She and Tate have spoken but never more than cursory phrases, token words that were exchanged as they passed by each other in the hallway or during the few times she got sick of missing him so much and sat down across from him to play scrabble. She misses his arms and his lips and his heart and soul (black and broken as they were) but most of all she misses his dick. She misses the way he would press into her while breathlessly whispering "I love you's" in her ear.

Lately, she's been given a whole new set of things to miss. They haven't played scrabble at all recently, and she thinks he's avoiding her. When she does see him, the looks he gives are less like love and more bitter. They match her own. She hates it. He doesn't get to be mad at her. She only gets to be mad at _him _for everything he did – for raping her mother and forcing her to leave him behind and spend the rest of her afterlife alone. But she's still horny as hell and with nothing to occupy her but her own fingers and fantasies she's started imagining what it would be like to fuck someone else.

She wasn't paying attention and before she knows it, Travis is standing in front of her.

"Feelin' warm?" he drawls in his California accent, all surfer boy and Hollywood cool.

She smiles. "It's nice down here. Thought I'd just stay down here and try and cool off."

He smiles and bent over to take her glass. Water dripped down his chin as he drank, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. She wants to lick it.

He sets the glass back down. "Think I'm gonna go play in the sprinkler," he says with a grin. He tweaks her nose as he walks up the stairs.

She scrunches her nose up and turns to go upstairs to watch him through one of the back windows. After she made it out of the basement she decides it was too hot to walk up another set of stairs and disappears, reappearing in an empty bedroom. She lies back on the bed, turning her head to stare outside. Travis is standing in the sprinkler, water dripping out of his hair and down his back. Through the hedge she can see two of Constance's dogs fucking in her yard. There's something so animal in the motion that it makes her shudder. She turns back to Travis's back and watches him push his hair back, shaking his head from side to side like some damn scene from a porno. Her fingers trail over her nipples and down her stomach and slip under the waistband of her panties. Her knuckles slide easily over the fabric. She's been wet since she watched the beads of sweat drip down his abs in the basement. Her back arches and she slips a finger inside, the heel of her hand rubbing against her clit.

She feels him in the room before she sees him. She pulls her hand out of her panties and exhales, angry.

"Hey," he says. She could tell he was pleased for having caught her, she was careful to never let him spot her getting off.

"What do you want?" she asks, blowing her hair away from her face.

He smiles but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "To see if you wanted to play scrabble. Clearly, you're busy."

"I was, yes."

"Does that make you feel any better?"

"Does it when you do it?"

"No. Nothing feels as good as you."

Violet flushes, the pink tint spreading from her cheeks to her chest. Tate grins wider.

"I see you watching him, you know."

"Who?"

"Travis. This isn't the first time that you've done it, just the first time I let you know that you were caught."

She narrows her eyes at him. "I'm not your girlfriend anymore," she says, her voice as sharp as broken glass. "What do you care?"

"I don't."

"Bullshit."

He gives her a mean smile, nothing like the genuine smiles that lit up his face like the sunrise. He reminds her of the boy that she met long ago, the one that told her that if she wanted to kill herself she was doing it wrong.

"I don't care because – " he says, and leans forward and runs his cold finger up her thigh. She wants to suppress it because she knows he's watching and waiting for her to do it but she can't help it – a shiver goes through her and her leg twitches. The smile leaves his face.

"I've seen him touch you before but I've never seen him make you do that."

Rage flares in her chest. "Go-"

He stands and backs towards the door. "No need. I'm going." He steps through the door and shuts it behind him.

Violet lays on the bed, panting. Travis had gone inside. Clearly, the moment had passed.

"Fuck," she mutters. She heaves herself off the bed and goes in search of something to distract her. She only gets about four steps before she hears moans and grunts coming from the room her parents share. Her stomach flips. She had seen her parents do it once, when she was a little girl. She understands how horny being dead can make you but the last people she wants to think about in a sexual situation is her parents.

She quickens her pace and passes the room. "Does everyone in this fucking house get to have sex but me?" she grumbles, heading towards the stairs. She figured she'd go sit with Angie and Margaret and teach them to memorize the poem that Travis had been reading earlier. It would be hot, but it would distract from the other things that made her feel like she was burning alive.

* * *

><p>"<em>Almost perfect, but not quite.<em>

_Those were the words of grown-up Mary_

_Talking about her handsome beau,_

_The one she wasn't gonna marry._

'_Squeezes me a bit too tight – _

_Almost perfect… but not quite.' "_

Travis and Patrick are in the backyard, working in the garden. Violet sits at the kitchen island and watches them through the window, listening to the girls little voices trickle up the stairs. They almost have the whole poem memorized. She smiles at the thought. She thinks they're cute.

She can feel Tate in the room but not see him. He's playing hide and seek either because he's mad at her or because he likes to torture her, she's not sure which. Five years of close proximity and mutual stalking have attuned them to one another. They always know if the other is there even if there's not visual proof, can sense body language and the speed and sound of their exhales to know what the other is feeling even if it can't be confirmed with their own eyes. For instance, she knows he's watching her watch Travis and Patrick, shirts off, sweat glistening, Greek gods or male models and anything and everything in between. She knows that he's amused by it rather than angry.

She feels like her afterlife is one big joke and everyone in the house is in on it except for her.

Chad walks into the kitchen and retrieves two glasses from the cupboard. He pours an iced tea for each of them and sets Violet's in front of her, then joins her in the other chair. She feels Tate leave. He and Chad don't get along. She thinks that's why she started following Chad around, partly because he's bitter like she is and partly because she knew that every time they were together she'd get five minutes without feeling like Tate was breathing down her neck.

She slides her cigarettes over to Chad without breaking her gaze from the symphony of testosterone in the backyard. He takes one from the pack, the lighter flares and then the air is heavy with the smoke of two cigarettes and the hormones of one sexually frustrated teenager.

"Does it bother you?" she asks, gesturing with her cigarette at the way Patrick was clearly trying to get Travis's attention.

He takes a long drag. "We've always had an open relationship," he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Yeah, but he's doing it right in front of you. That sucks."

"I have no confusion about what my relationship with Pat is. We're stuck here forever so we might as well make the best of it."

Violet shrugs. "I guess it doesn't matter either way. Travis isn't gay."

The corners of Chad's mouth twitch. "You're so young," he says condescendingly, patting her hand.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Pat blew your dad last week."

Violet's eyes widen in surprise. "Bullshit," she says, laughing. "My dad's not gay."

Chad looks at her with a sardonic smile. "No, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't like getting the occasional blow job from someone that isn't his wife."

Violet leans back in her chair. "What an asshole," she says, staring at the ceiling. "After all the bullshit that he put my mom through, he does something like this? Fucking selfish bastard."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, it's just sex," Chad says dismissively. "Your mom and I have a lot in common. We both moved into this house to try and save marriages that were doomed. She may be happy that she's here with her partner now, but that doesn't mean that every little fucked up thing that was wrong before isn't _still_ wrong. It is, just in different ways. Both of our husbands like someone else's mouth on their dick from time to time. If that's what it takes to get our happily ever after, then that's what it takes."

Violet buries her head in her hands. "I hate this fucking house," she mutters.

"Join the club, sweetheart." Chad says, pulling another cigarette from the pack. "You should stop moping around and find something to make your time a little more bearable."

She gives him a bitter smile. "Doing that right now," she says, nodding towards Travis.

Chad rolls his eyes. "Please. You're not going to fuck Travis."

"I could."

He laughs, making Violet's chest flare with anger again. "Sweetie, he's a _fixation_ for you. Like the way people fantasize about celebrities. It's a good distraction but if you got in him a room with his pants off you'd probably run screaming down the hall. It's not him you like, it's the idea of him."

"Fuck you."

Chad pours them both more iced tea. "We both know that you'd rather be banging the little psycho that shot me and sodomized my husband with a fire poker..." he gives a wicked grin. "Though I'm not so mad at him for that, anymore."

"I don't want to talk about Tate," she says stiffly.

Chad narrows his eyes at her. "We don't keep secrets, you and me," he says sternly. "We're as close to friends as either one of us is going to get."

"I'm not going to go back to him."

Chad taps his cigarette in the ashtray they shared. "It's funny," he muses. "He's desperate for you to admit that you still love him, and he won't fuck you until you do. You're desperate to fuck him but you'll never admit that you're still in love with the little shit. It's ironic."

"Yeah, just what this house needs. More fucking irony." She grinds her cigarette into the ashtray and slides off her chair.

"I don't need to ask where you're going. I think he's upstairs."

She avoides his eyes as she leaves the room. She wasn't planning on talking to Tate, or even letting him see her – she just wants to see where he was and what he was doing. She likes to be near him. She doesn't like to think about what that meant about her.

She loves him. She hates him. She couldn't decide what she felt more.

She walks down the halls and peeks in each of the doorways, looking for him. She finally finds him in the bedroom next to hers, standing, his back to the door. She contemplates going to find another distraction, but then he gave a soft moan.

She drifts around the bed to face him. His hips rock forward and his hand squeezes his cock.

Violet licks her lips. His eyes open into tiny slits, sweeping the room. He can't see her but he knows she's there. She waits to see if he'll stop but he doesn't - he just gives a half smile and keeps thrusting into his fingers.

She's not thinking straight and still stinging from what Chad had to say. She reveals herself, stepping forward and kneeling in front of him.

He doesn't look surprised. She hates that.

She pries his hand away and licks the underside of his dick, swirling her tongue over the head. His hips rock again like she was pulling them forward with a string that she held in her mouth. She smiles and looks up at him, making her eyes wide and innocent.

He reaches down and tickles the underside of her chin, guiding her mouth back to his cock. She takes him whole, sliding her lips down to the base. She gagged as he hits the back of her throat and he jerks again. His hands thread through her hair, pushing and pulling her head for her to go at a speed he liked. He groans and she gives a throaty laugh around his dick, making his legs twitch.

She reaches up to work his dick with her hand while she sucks the head, trailing her tongue over the ridge around the top. His thrusting becomes erratic and she knows he's going to cum any second. She leans forward and takes him all in her mouth again, gagging as he hits the back of her uvula and she feels his dick twitch against her tongue and tastes his cum as it spills down her throat.

She swallows and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, self-satisfied and feeling like she's finally gotten the best of him.

He tugs at her hands and pulls her into a standing position. He smiles at her and cups his face with her hands, leaning forward to brush her lips with his.

"Violet?" he breathes against her mouth.

"Yeah?"

"Go away."

She blinks and finds herself in the basement.

It takes her a minute to process exactly what happened but once she does, she's furious. At him. At herself. At the house.

"I hate this fucking house!" she screams, throwing one of the old China dolls on the table at the wall and smashing it into a million pieces.

She knows he can hear her. She wonders if he cares.

* * *

><p><em>"Almost perfect... but not quite."<em>

_Those were the words of ol' Miss Hume_

_Teaching in the seventh grade,_

_Grading papers in the gloom_

_Late at night up in her room._

_They never cross their t's just right - _

_Almost perfect... but not quite."_

She smiles and claps for the Angie and Margaret. They've arranged a recital - or rather, Travis has arranged a recital - in the basement. Her mom and dad sit with the baby on her mother's lap and applaud the girls as they recite their poem.

"Very nice ladies," Travis says proudly. "Now, we curtsy like so," he gives an exaggerated curtsy for the girls and they mimicked him, giggling.

The baby in Vivien's lap gives a wail. "That's our cue to leave," Ben says apologetically. "But very nice job girls, well done!" Vivien smiles and the two head upstairs to feed or burp or change the child that's forever their baby. Violet resists the urge to stick her tongue out at their backs. She's been feeling more than a little cranky since Tate reverse blue-balled her, not that she could explain that to anyone.

Travis smiles at the girls and brings them back in the corner for tea party and dress up - the promised reward after the recital. He invites Violet to join but the city is still in the grip of a heatwave and the last thing she wants to do is sit in the tiny room while the girls give off heat and sparks.

_A bath sounds nice_, she thinks to herself. She trudges up the stairs and past the bedrooms but stops when she hears a low giggle that she doesn't recognize. She nudges the door open with her toe to peer inside.

Hugo lies on the bed. Moira's straddling him, her back to him, facing the Dahlia who's kneeling on the other side.

Violet's only seen Moira's other form once before, when she was prancing around in front of Travis with her little French maid's outfit on. Violet had no idea she was so stunningly beautiful. He red hair is undone and wild, trailing down her back and bouncing as she rides Hugo. She leans forward and slips her tongue into the Dahlia's mouth, her fingers sliding in and out of the Dahlia's cunt.

Violet's tongue goes numb. She feels the fresh slide of wetness on her thighs under her dress.

The Dahlia moans and grinds against Moira's fingers. Moira laughs and leans forward for another kiss, their lips sliding back and forth. The Dahlia's head lolls forward and she buried her head into her own chest, cheekbone resting on her shoulder. Her stomach clenches and tightens and she rocks back and forth on Moira's fingers. _She's cuming_, Violet thinks dumbly.

The Dahlia sighs and smiles up at Moria, who leans back and rests her hand on the bed beside Hugo's shoulder for support. Her pelvis tilts forward and the Dahlia lunges forward to lick her clit while she fucks Hugo. Moira's head rolls back and she spots Violet lurking in the doorway.

Violet froze. Moira just gave another throaty laugh and kept thrusting, grinding onto the Dahlia's tongue and Hugo's dick at the same time.

Violet staggers back and leaned against the wall. "Jesus," she mutters. The house had to be fucking with her. She starts peeling her clothes off and was naked before she even makes it to the bathroom. Fuck it. She doesn't care if anyone sees her. She _hopes_ someone sees her, Travis or Charles or some ghost that she didn't even fucking know about yet. At this point, she'd fuck the exterminator.

She fills the tub with cool water and lights a cigarette. She takes a long drag and sets it on the edge of the tub. Her hands won't be occupied for long. She sits next to her cigarette and lets her feet cool in the tub, running her hand down her stomach as her knees fall open.

She circles her fingers over her clit, breathing heavy. She imagined that it was Moria's tongue licking her. Travis's. Tate's.

Tate.

Her back arches and she guides a finger inside, remembering the way Tate's dick had felt the last time it was inside her. The way his dick tastes.

"You can get carpal tunnel from that, you know."

Violet opens her eyes to glare at him. "Trust me, that's the least of my problems."

Tate smirks and picks up a washcloth, dipping it in the water and squeezing it out. He comes to stand behind her, reaching his arms around her and running the cool cloth over her breasts.

"What problems do you have?" he asks, stroking her nipple.

"I'm so fucking hot I feel like I'm being burned alive. I'm in a house full of sex maniacs and I can't get anyone to fuck me. And I fucking hate you."

He breathes against her neck. She shivers. "You don't hate me."

"I do. But don't worry, I hate myself more."

He laughs, his breath tickling her ear. "You're a bitch."

"I know."

"You left me. You promised you would never leave me."

Now it's her turn to laugh. "Yeah, well you promised you would never hurt me. Guess we're even."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck _you," _she sneers at him, her hands still working furiously over her cunt. "Fuck you for making me love you so much that I freaked out and killed myself. I could be alive right now. I'd be twenty years old and fucking some frat boy, but instead I'm trapped in this hell hole and fucking myself."

His arm trails down her stomach, reaching in to add a third finger over her two. She squirms against his back.

"When are we going to stop punishing each other?" he asks, forcing her fingers to pump more slowly, evenly. Her stomach coils as her hips rock onto their hands.

"Never."

"Such a child," he says nipping at her ear.

"I'll never forgive you, Tate."

"You don't have to. I'll never forgive you for telling me to go away."

She wants her laugh to sound as bitter as she is but it comes out breathless instead. "So what do we do then?"

He speeds up their fingers. "Love each other. Just like Chad and Patrick. Just like your mom and dad. Love each other in spite of how fucked up or wrong it is."

She feels herself teetering over the edge and her hips roll forward and then the pressure from his body against her back is gone. He's disappeared.

She sighs and slides a third finger of her own deep inside and rocks her hips back and forth until she cums, her sex clenching over her hand. She reaches for her cigarette and pulls in the smoke, filling her lungs.

"Fucking tease," she mutters.

From somewhere far away, she swears she can hear him laughing.

* * *

><p>After she had come down from her high and washed the wetness off of her sex and her thighs she dresses and goes looking for Chad. She's out of smokes and he always has a spare pack.<p>

She finds him in the kitchen, nursing a glass of wine. She pulls another goblet from the cupboard and nudges it towards him. He smiles and fills her glass.

"Have fun?"

"At the recital?" she asks, pulling a cigarette from the pack in front of him.

"Yeah, that's what I was talking about," he says, giving her a sidelong glance. "The little girls poetry recital. Not the peep show and the... _bath_," he says, emphasizing the word and raising an eyebrow at her.

She grins and sips her wine. "How did you know?"

"I saw Moira, Hugo and Dahlia sneak upstairs about a half an hour ago. I was curious." He grins and absentmindedly flicks the wheel on his lighter. "Then I saw you investigate who was making all those moans. I was surprised at how long you watched."

She shrugs. "Moira's pretty hot."

He smirked. "I didn't know that she was your type. Is our little flower having her spring awakening?"

She shakes her head "No, just a two on the Kinsey scale. I always figured there would be time to experiment in college, but I didn't quite make it that far."

"Kinky," he says, raising his wine glass towards her.

They sip their wine, lost in their own thoughts.

"Were you alone in the bathroom?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"Mostly."

"Did you finally get him to fuck you?"

"No. Unfortunately."

"You're so stupid."

She flicks her cigarette at him, embers landing on his hand. "Thanks. I know."

He brushes the ash away, his hand already healing the little pinprick burns. "Not for loving him. For not just _taking_ what you want."

She sighs and leans back in her chair. "You know it's more complicated than that."

"Is it? Do you honestly think your parents would care at this point? Christ, they're too wrapped up in fucking each other and taking care of that goddamn wailing baby."

Violet glares at him and kicks his calf. He gives a sardonic smile. "Sorry," he says in a tone that was anything but.

She reaches forward and empties the rest of the wine into her goblet. "No. You're right. I know you're right."

He reaches out to pat her leg. "As for Tate, you should take a leaf out of his book. Just take what you want. It's what he does."

She knows. She knows because she's seen him do it. She knows because she's like him and in her own way, she's done it too.

He slides off his chair and stretches. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find Pat, make him feel guilty for blowing your father, and then I'm going to fuck him until he can't strut around in front of that California gym bunny anymore." He takes two steps towards the door and stops. "You've got just as much of a right as anyone else to a bit of happiness," he says, squeezing her shoulder and pressing his pack of cigarettes into her hand. "Stop bitching and _do_ something about it."

She nods and he leaves. She sits alone in the kitchen contemplating her next move.

* * *

><p>She's standing naked in her bedroom. His bedroom. Their bedroom.<p>

"Tate," she whispers.

He appears next to her. "Nice," he said, eying her body. "But you know how I feel ab-"

Chad steps forward from the shadows and wraps his arm around Tate's neck. Tate was stronger, he had overpowered Chad once before, but Chad had the element of surprise. He twists Tate's head and Violet hears his neck snap. Chad lets go and Tate collapses in a heap, spread eagled, dead on the floor.

Chad takes a step back. "I'm surprised at how good that felt," he says breathlessly. He kicks Tate's corpse in the gut.

"Be gentle. I need that."

Chad rolls his eyes. "Fine. Hurry though, you've only got about three minutes before he wakes up again." She nods and Chad disappeared from the room.

She strips Tate naked quickly drags him into a chair. He's dead weight and heavy but she's determined, huffing and puffing and sweat dripping down her back. She sits him up and puts his hands behind his back, tying them together with rope. She ties his ankles to the front legs of the chair and is tying the gag in his mouth when he comes to.

"Mmmph! Arrrghmmph!"

She steps from behind him. "Stop wiggling," she said. "And don't try to disappear or I'll cut your dick off. See?" she waves one of her father's razor blades in front of his face. His eyes widen.

"I got sick of this stupid game we were playing. I don't want to do it anymore."

He glares at her.

"I don't want to fuck anyone else but you and the fact that you won't give it up is starting to really piss me off. I know you want to, otherwise you wouldn't keep popping up when I'm naked or trying to cum." She smirks and nods at his dick, already hard. "See? You want me. I can't help that I'm horny all the time, and it's not my fucking fault that you're a psychopath, so I'm not going to wait for your permission anymore. I'm going to fuck you and you're going to sit her and take it."

His eyes narrow at her, then he squints his eyes shut. She sees his dick droop and soften.

"Oh, no no no. Don't even try that. What are you thinking about? Constance? Your sister?" She kneels between his legs. "Did I tell you what I saw right before you blue-balled me, _again, _the other night?" She runs her fingers up his dick and watches it start to stiffen. "I saw Moira fucking your dad and the Dahlia at the same time. It was so fucking hot, watching the Dahlia lick her clit like that. And then I thought that maybe we could ask her to join _us _sometime." She looks up at him and he's glaring at her defiantly, but his dick is almost hard again. She grins and wraps her lips around his cock and sucks. He groans through the gag.

She straddles him, her legs dangling over either side of the chair. She rocks forward and the head of his dick slides between her folds, skimming her sex. His eyes roll back in his head.

"I know the truth," she says, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. "If you wanted out of her bad enough, you'd be gone already. Even if I cut off your dick it would just grow back. It would hurt, but what's a little pain, right?" To punctuate her point, she runs her fingers through his hair and pulls hard enough to jerk his head to the side.

"Exactly," she grins meanly, and thrusts forward to slide his dick into her cunt.

They both groan and she rocks her hips forward. They had never been like this, her completely in control. She laces her arms around his neck and leans back, thrusting her pelvis forward. She can feel every single inch of his cock and from this angle it's hitting places it's never reached before. She arches her back and her clit rubs along his dick with every stroke.

"Jesus," she hisses. She opens her eyes to look at him and he's watching her, angry but moaning through the gag just the same.

She speeds her pace, leaning back further. She wishes she could cut one of his arms loose so he could hold her in place but then it wouldn't be her fucking him and him taking it. She arches her back again and her clit rubs perfectly against his pubic bone she feels her orgasm building, coiling in her stomach like a snake. She twists her legs around the back legs of the chair for added support and throws her hips onto his, their bodies slapping obscenely against each other. Sweat drips down her chest and she watches him follow the beads slowly with his eyes as they move over her nipples and slide down her stomach.

"I'm going to take the gag out your mouth, but I don't want you to yell. I'm going to cum and if you fucking ruin this I'll kill you, and it won't be all nice and quick like Chad did. I'll make it last."

He glares at her again but leans his head forward so she can pull the gag off. She does, and he spits at her. "Crazy bitch," he pants.

She grins. "I know. But it's your fucking fault and you're going to have to put up with it."

She leans forward and crashes her mouth into his. He may be mad but he's kissing her back, sliding his tongue over hers and running it over her mouth. She fucks him harder, her hips pounding into his. He pulls her lower lip between his teeth and bites and she cums, harder than she's ever come before from his dick or her fingers and she rides it out until she's shaking and feels like she might pass out.

He still hasn't cum yet so she leans even closer, pressing her breasts against his chest and moving up and down as opposed to back and forth. She hears his breathing hitch and she pulls his earlobe into her mouth, biting it gently as he cums. She feels the hot stickiness of him drip out of her and onto their thighs.

She slows and stills. They sit. She buries her face in his shoulder. She doesn't even realize that she's crying until the tears dripped onto her chest.

She reaches a hand down and unties the rope that binds his hands together. He stretches for a moment and then wraps his arms around her torso, hugging her to him. One hand reaches up to stroke her hair.

"Shhh. It's okay, Violet. It's okay."

She starts sobbing, sliding off him and bending down to untie his legs. Once he's free, he leans down and sweeps her into his arms, carrying her to the bed. He cuddles behind her, stroking her hair and soothing her as she sobs.

When she has no tears left she turns to face him. He strokes her face gently, gazing into her eyes.

"We're done now," she says, still breathless from fucking and crying. "No more punishments, for either one of us."

"Good."

"I love you. It makes me fucked up but I love you anyway."

"Good."

"Are you happy?"

"Of course," he says, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger. "I love you. I would have waited for you forever, but I'm glad I don't have to wait anymore."

She buries her face in his chest and closes her eyes. It was so easy to pretend that this was happily ever after but she knew it wasn't. She thought that it was possible her and Chad were the only two sane people in the entire fucking house, everyone else too jacked up on bullshit and hormones and how fucked up dying makes you to see the truth. There were no happy endings here. Sure, it was close, but she had to deal with the fact that the love of her life was a mass-murdering psychopath that raped her mother. Just like Chad had to pretend that Pat didn't suck anyone else's cock for kicks and that he wasn't going to leave him before Tate showed up to ensure that they'd be stuck in the house forever.

It could have been different. If only neither she or Pat wouldn't have exercised their curiosities on their laptops, him to talk dirty to a stranger and her to figure out the truth about the boy she loved. If only Tate would have left the rubber suit in the garbage where it belonged. If only, if only.

He presses his hands into her back. She breathes into his chest and sighs. She remembers the last stanza of her poem.

_"Ninety-eight the day she died_

_Complaining 'bout the spotless floor._

_People shook their heads and sighed,_

_'Guess that she'll like heaven more.'_

_Up went her soul on feathered wings,_

_Out the door, up out of sight._

_Another voice from heaven came -_

_'Almost perfect... but not quite.'_

That was her forever. Almost perfect, but not quite. So close to having it all, just not enough heaven to make her forget completely that it was really hell.

She burrows deeper into his chest. She had until the end of time to try to stop caring that she was fucked up enough to love him. Might as well start today.


End file.
